The Greatest Gift
by CopperKettle
Summary: A Christmastime story starring Victor Zsasz. All he needs is a bit of holiday kindness from a stranger to turn himself around, right? Oh yes, I'm sure that will work.


The city streets were gray and slick with filthy snow, but that didn't appear the dampen the spirits of last-minute Christmas shoppers. They crossed from store to store, clutching their coats and scarves tight to keep out the frozen night air. With eyes fixed on their next purchases, no one noticed the scrawny, bare-chested man as he staggered through the crowds and down a back alley.

He collapsed into the meager shelter of a doorway. At least there he was guarded from the biting wind. He drew his arms around himself and tried to focus on not trembling. The tips of his fingers were already numb. He suspected his toes weren't faring much better.

For what seemed like an eternity, he sat there and shook, listening to the holiday music playing from the various shops and echoing through the alley. He was so cold. He knew he only had to wait out the night, though. Once the sun came up he would be fine, but that was still at least ten hours off. He could make it.

"I c-can't make it," he wheezed, getting to his feet. He leaned against the door. Where on earth could he go? Homeless shelters would be on full alert and were probably crawling with cops. And he was much too conspicuous to attempt to stay anywhere else. The scars covering his body may as well have been a flashing neon sign that read VICTOR ZSASZ, SERIAL KILLER.

Just when he was considering throwing himself into a nearby dumpster in the hope that it was warm inside, the door he was resting his weight on started to open. He took a few steps back. A woman popped her head out and spotted him. "Oh, goodness!" she said. "Sorry, I didn't know someone was out here." She came outside with a trash bag and kicked a wooden block into place to keep the door ajar.

He watched as she hoisted the bag over her shoulder and tossed it into the dumpster. As she brushed her hands on the thighs of her jeans, she caught a good look at him and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Shit," was all she managed to say.

He imagined she was struck by the realization that he was Victor Zsasz, though at the moment he felt anything but menacing. Shivering and pale and hunched was not the look he liked to project.

It took her a good minute or so to finally comprehend that he was obviously not going to kill her outright. "I swear I won't call the police," she said carefully. "I swear. I don't want trouble. I just want to go inside."

He moved slowly away from the door and gave her the go-ahead with a lift of his brow. On any other night, he would've put the knife in her throat the second she made herself known. Tonight, however, he knew the blade would shake too much in his hand to be of any use.

"Thank you," she said. She tip-toed nervously around him and put fingers on the door's handle. But then she paused. She turned back to him. "Are you just going to stay out here in the cold?"

He said nothing, only rubbed at his nose and trembled.

"You'll freeze to death," she said.

Again, his silence served as his only reply.

She pulled the door open completely and nodded towards the warmly-lit interior. "Get in here, then. If I saw you all frostbitten and dead on the news later, I'd just feel bad."

Without needing to be told twice, he followed her in. Instantly there was heat surrounding his brittle frame. He breathed in the thick, fragrant air. They were in a storeroom of some kind, probably for a restaurant. He could smell all the food that had been served earlier, and his stomach suddenly ached with hunger pangs.

"Come on into the kitchen," she said. "I'll put some chowder on and find you a coat or something."

He sat perched on a stool, sniffling, teeth still chattering, as he waited for her to return. The kitchen lights were dim and relaxing, and the low rumble of the stovetop made him want to climb up onto the counter and fall asleep there. His whole body was screaming for a little rest. He'd been running for so long since escaping Arkham that morning.

"Here we go," said the women, entering with a big woolen sweater. He threw it on immediately and pressed the cable knit close to his skin. Blessed warmth. "You can go ahead and keep it. It's been in the back closet for ages. Doesn't even fit me anymore."

She took the chowder off the stove and ladled some into a bowl. He wasn't sure what was in it, but he didn't care. Halfway through the bowl, he abandoned the spoon and started pouring it down his throat. His felt the heat permeating through his insides. She gave him seconds, which he also inhaled, and when he was full he heaved a great sigh and said, "Good stuff. Thanks."

She smiled. "No problem. And hey, you can stick around for a couple more hours if you want to. I need to fix some schedules and do a bit of paperwork, so I won't be locking up quite yet."

"Sure."

He sprawled out on the sofa in the back office while she sat down in front of the computer and started typing away. A box of tissues on the end table found a home in his lap, and he went through probably half of them with all his sniffling.

Warm and satiated and content, he soon fell asleep.

In the middle of a dream, he felt her tapping him awake. "Hey," she said, "I need to head home now, so I have to kick you out. Sorry."

"No, that's fine," he said after a lengthy stretch. "You've been more than kind."

"Well, it _is_ Christmas Eve. I couldn't just let you stay out in the snow." They walked to the front of the restaurant where all the chairs were turned up on top of the tables. "I know what you do, Mr. Zsasz, but you're still a person. And I think every person deserves a bit of kindness around the holidays."

They stood there in the faint light, faces illuminated red and green from the Christmas decorations outside the windows. He didn't want this moment to end. "There's something I'd like to give you," he said quietly. "In return for all of this."

"Oh, you really don't have to."

"No, I want to." He reached into his back pocket, felt what he was after. "It's the greatest gift I could give."

The metallic pop of the switchblade didn't even register with the woman, and the knife was in her throat before she had time to scream. He caught her gently as her knees weakened, and he eased her down to the linoleum floor.

She looked up at him, eyes huge and horrified. Her lips worked to form words, but nothing came out. "Shh," he said, putting a finger to her bloodied mouth. "It's all right. This is my gift. It's the gift of freedom." He pulled the blade out and listened to her choking gasps. "Shh."

She grabbed at the knitting of his sweater, but he took her hand in his and squeezed.

"You can go now," he whispered. He gave her hair an affectionate pet.

Her face slowly went slack, and then it was over.

He lifted the sweater from his stomach and found an incomplete grouping of hash marks. His knife etched her there in his flesh, a testament to his boundless generosity, and he sighed and shuddered in pleasure. Hundreds had received his gift already, but it was never enough.

He exited for the dark streets. There were still so many people in need, and now he had the strength again to help them.


End file.
